Easter weekend brings with it many good things...the family service at St. Comgall's this morning followed by brunch of sandwiches, sausages, and sweets for the children; a sunny day and tonight a full moon; the conclusion to the BBC series Lark Rise to Candleford, in which we'll find out if Dorcas Lane and Sir Timothy will ever get together or not; a plan to make one more batch of homemade sausage rolls; our last week of relative relaxation before really packing in earnest next week for our departure at the end of the month.
I picked up a few more books for our summer bedtime reading at the used bookstore this morning. We've already got Swallows and Amazons and The Wheel on the School tucked away, now we've added Treasure Island, Gulliver's Travels, and Little House on the Prairie to the stack. Tom Sawyer was supposed to be for this summer but we got started on it already. Last night I read the chapter where Tom and Huck witness the doctor's murder in the graveyard at midnight; it was a little intense - Reed listened with wide eyes, clutching the blanket up to his nose - but as far as I know he didn't have any nightmares afterwards. I explained to Reed my own trick when I had been reading something that turned out to be scary - read something else before turning out the light. I think the antidote to scary Mark Twain was the Far Side.
The backpacks are out of the closet and mine is halfway full. I've got Reed's things mostly set aside, ready to put in the bag as soon as Walt is done using it for the gym, and Walt, as usual, is procrastinating packing until the last moment. He has been helping with the removals of unnecessary possessions to the charity shops, though. I read a travel book by Dervla Murphy last year called Full Tilt, which chronicled her bicycle trip from Dublin to Delhi in the early 60s. She made a list of what she carried with her and it was fascinating to me to see how little a person could travel with. Dervla Murphy is an amazing woman and I can't compare, but I am getting better at traveling light. For this portion of the trip, packing into a backpack and my leather satchel I have:
Three nice skirts
One short sleeve black t-shirt
One fuchsia tank top
One short sleeve embroidered eyelet cotton blouse
One long sleeve white linen blouse
Two pairs linen trousers (tan, geranium)
Espadrille type sandals
One pair of jeans
Two short sleeved t-shirts (black and brown)
Two long sleeved blouses (both brown)
One green fleece pullover
One white cotton cardigan
One casual mini skirt
Two cotton tank tops
Birkenstock sandals
Hiking boots
One pair of work jeans
One pair khaki shorts
Two work t-shirts
One long-sleeved work shirt
One brown wool cardigan for work
Black leather Birkenstocks, Teva sandals
6 pairs of cotton socks
12 pairs of cotton undies
6 cotton bras
1 pair of pajamas
Basic toiletries and first aid
Glasses and contacts, handkerchiefs, towel, and washcloth
Alarm clock and booklight
4 books
Raincoat
Purse w/ notebook and wallet
Computer, camera, digital recorder, CD player, CDs
French book
And last but not least, tucked away, all of the teeth which Reed has lost while we've been here, except for the one he lost playing outside. Don't tell him that I'm the tooth fairy, please.
Showing posts with label backpacking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label backpacking. Show all posts
Friday, March 21, 2008
Monday, April 23, 2007
Cleaning House
The flannel sheets we bought new ten years ago just gave out. My husband kicked a soccer ball in his sleep and put his sharp toenailed foot right through it, where it had frayed thin as gauze. Today I spent half an hour cutting what was left into rags, remembering the basement apartment in Sitka, Alaska where we lived when we bought those sheets, and how many homes we’d lived in since then, what we have survived, and celebrated.
So now seems like as good a time as any to go abroad for a year.
Same thing with the dishcloths and dishtowels that I bought when we were first married – they’re getting frayed and faded and turned into cleaning rags at a high rate, and for that matter, the futon mattress in which we have sunk gratefully and comfortably to sleep for a decade – in those cozy flannel sheets - has developed matching indentations, his and hers, which will not disappear not matter how many times I rotate it. It is time to pass these things on to someone who isn’t yet married or to recycle them, in a more thorough version of spring cleaning than I’ve tackled since the last time we moved south from Alaska.
The cleaning house metaphor is often used when relationships have crumbled but in fact Walt and I are still married, 15 years this year, on June 13. I know that might be a letdown for people who love a good tragedy, like my writing teacher in grad school who was sorry that we’d worked through the difficulties associated with a white bread Protestant Midwestern flatlander marrying a heathen from the Cascades. The plot of that particular story would’ve been more poignant, perhaps, if our differences had been insurmountable, but here we are. I’m proud that our marriage has outlived our linens; if we’re lucky and keep at it perhaps we’ll even outlive the quilts I’ve inherited from my grandmother. More likely, Reed will inherit the quilts, which don’t get near as much daily wear and tear as Walt and I.
Some people think preparing for a trip such as we’re taking, a year in Europe, is a lot of work. For me, it is sheer joy. I’m never happier than when I’m sorting through the closet dumping the old stuff into a box for a garage sale, shredding the contents of old files, taking inventory of the cupboards and planning how many apple crisps I will need to make before we leave in order to use up all the plum jam from the pantry. (12, which is also the number of chickens in the freezer that I need to roast, fry, grill, or stew before August 1. I will never be able to eat the 10 jars of bread and butter pickles – so they will go to friends.)
Living out of a backpack for a year at age 39 doesn’t scare me, in fact, I can hardly wait to pack and get going: 7 pairs of underwear, pajamas, two t-shirts, two sweaters, two trousers, two skirts, 5 bras, 7 pairs of socks, work shoes, town shoes, a book, a reading light, my laptop, a towel, and a little bag of bandaids and toothpaste and stuff like that. I won’t need to carry any scouring powder, keys, or the thick pad of paper on which I usually write my “to-do” lists. Housework isn’t something one spends a lot of time doing when one is living out of a backpack; neither is driving a car, or doing good deeds for one’s church or community, all things wonderful and necessary but of which I am tired. I can still do the things that are essential to me. What might it be like to be a writer and a wife and a mother, still, but while living out of a backpack? Why not see? Why not see NOW?
When I was 15 my dad had to transfer and I was offered the opportunity to change high schools and towns, from a small one to a medium sized one, both still in Iowa, but a universe apart. At first I reacted sentimentally about the friends I’d grown up with since kindergarten. How could I leave them? But then a boy from the new town kissed me, something none of my old friends were likely to ever do, even D.P., my neighbor who’d walked with me hand in hand to kindergarten until peer pressure got to him and he learned that girls had cooties. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed and given D. the chance, once we were 17; after all, he had never stopped being the first boy I ever really liked. But I packed my things with a good dose of teenage resentment and left almost without looking back. Ever since, I’ve had no trouble giving in to my itchy feet.
So now seems like as good a time as any to go abroad for a year.
Same thing with the dishcloths and dishtowels that I bought when we were first married – they’re getting frayed and faded and turned into cleaning rags at a high rate, and for that matter, the futon mattress in which we have sunk gratefully and comfortably to sleep for a decade – in those cozy flannel sheets - has developed matching indentations, his and hers, which will not disappear not matter how many times I rotate it. It is time to pass these things on to someone who isn’t yet married or to recycle them, in a more thorough version of spring cleaning than I’ve tackled since the last time we moved south from Alaska.
The cleaning house metaphor is often used when relationships have crumbled but in fact Walt and I are still married, 15 years this year, on June 13. I know that might be a letdown for people who love a good tragedy, like my writing teacher in grad school who was sorry that we’d worked through the difficulties associated with a white bread Protestant Midwestern flatlander marrying a heathen from the Cascades. The plot of that particular story would’ve been more poignant, perhaps, if our differences had been insurmountable, but here we are. I’m proud that our marriage has outlived our linens; if we’re lucky and keep at it perhaps we’ll even outlive the quilts I’ve inherited from my grandmother. More likely, Reed will inherit the quilts, which don’t get near as much daily wear and tear as Walt and I.
Some people think preparing for a trip such as we’re taking, a year in Europe, is a lot of work. For me, it is sheer joy. I’m never happier than when I’m sorting through the closet dumping the old stuff into a box for a garage sale, shredding the contents of old files, taking inventory of the cupboards and planning how many apple crisps I will need to make before we leave in order to use up all the plum jam from the pantry. (12, which is also the number of chickens in the freezer that I need to roast, fry, grill, or stew before August 1. I will never be able to eat the 10 jars of bread and butter pickles – so they will go to friends.)
Living out of a backpack for a year at age 39 doesn’t scare me, in fact, I can hardly wait to pack and get going: 7 pairs of underwear, pajamas, two t-shirts, two sweaters, two trousers, two skirts, 5 bras, 7 pairs of socks, work shoes, town shoes, a book, a reading light, my laptop, a towel, and a little bag of bandaids and toothpaste and stuff like that. I won’t need to carry any scouring powder, keys, or the thick pad of paper on which I usually write my “to-do” lists. Housework isn’t something one spends a lot of time doing when one is living out of a backpack; neither is driving a car, or doing good deeds for one’s church or community, all things wonderful and necessary but of which I am tired. I can still do the things that are essential to me. What might it be like to be a writer and a wife and a mother, still, but while living out of a backpack? Why not see? Why not see NOW?
When I was 15 my dad had to transfer and I was offered the opportunity to change high schools and towns, from a small one to a medium sized one, both still in Iowa, but a universe apart. At first I reacted sentimentally about the friends I’d grown up with since kindergarten. How could I leave them? But then a boy from the new town kissed me, something none of my old friends were likely to ever do, even D.P., my neighbor who’d walked with me hand in hand to kindergarten until peer pressure got to him and he learned that girls had cooties. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed and given D. the chance, once we were 17; after all, he had never stopped being the first boy I ever really liked. But I packed my things with a good dose of teenage resentment and left almost without looking back. Ever since, I’ve had no trouble giving in to my itchy feet.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Looking forward to another dose of Irish hospitality
The following is the sidebar to an article I wrote on Irish food history in America for the Spokane Spokesman-Review, published in March, 2007.
Picture a nineteen year old near-broke and Dublin-weary backpacker, with 9 pounds of Irish money to her name, set to sail back to England from the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire the next morning. Imagine her dismay when she discovers, late in the rainy December afternoon, after the banks have closed, that the ferry terminal is not open all night, and that the B&B’s in town charge at least 12 pounds per night.
After hours of tearful wandering in a shopping center, hungrily nibbling on crackers, wondering where and how she will sleep, our backpacker finally phones Mrs. Pittman’s B&B, inquiring in a pitiful voice whether they might accept a few English pounds along with Irish pounds as payment.
“Why, yes, dear, of course. And if you just have the English breakfast in the morning I’ll just charge you nine pounds.” (As if Mrs. Pittman knew just how much money the girl had!)
The next thing our damp backpacker knows, she’s eating a bowl of hot Irish stew by Mrs. Pittman’s roaring fireplace, followed by a thick wedge of chocolate cake and a glass of creamy milk for dessert; then, after a hot, hot bath, is tucked into a frilly bed with clean sheets in an upstairs bedroom for a sound sleep, such a change after raucous youth hostels.
An English breakfast consists, to our backpacker’s dismay, of oatmeal and toast and juice and tea and eggs and sausage (she wonders what she would’ve been served if she’d paid the full charge). It is the biggest and tastiest breakfast she has eaten for months. And then, since it is still raining, Mrs. Pittman directs the cheerful Mr. Pittman to drive our now well-fed traveler directly to the ferry terminal so she doesn’t have to walk clear across town.
Yes, the Irish are indeed lovely, generous people. That backpacker was me, and I have never forgotten the wonderful Mrs. Pittman in Dun Laoghaire and how she rescued me that cold, rainy night almost 20 years ago.
Picture a nineteen year old near-broke and Dublin-weary backpacker, with 9 pounds of Irish money to her name, set to sail back to England from the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire the next morning. Imagine her dismay when she discovers, late in the rainy December afternoon, after the banks have closed, that the ferry terminal is not open all night, and that the B&B’s in town charge at least 12 pounds per night.
After hours of tearful wandering in a shopping center, hungrily nibbling on crackers, wondering where and how she will sleep, our backpacker finally phones Mrs. Pittman’s B&B, inquiring in a pitiful voice whether they might accept a few English pounds along with Irish pounds as payment.
“Why, yes, dear, of course. And if you just have the English breakfast in the morning I’ll just charge you nine pounds.” (As if Mrs. Pittman knew just how much money the girl had!)
The next thing our damp backpacker knows, she’s eating a bowl of hot Irish stew by Mrs. Pittman’s roaring fireplace, followed by a thick wedge of chocolate cake and a glass of creamy milk for dessert; then, after a hot, hot bath, is tucked into a frilly bed with clean sheets in an upstairs bedroom for a sound sleep, such a change after raucous youth hostels.
An English breakfast consists, to our backpacker’s dismay, of oatmeal and toast and juice and tea and eggs and sausage (she wonders what she would’ve been served if she’d paid the full charge). It is the biggest and tastiest breakfast she has eaten for months. And then, since it is still raining, Mrs. Pittman directs the cheerful Mr. Pittman to drive our now well-fed traveler directly to the ferry terminal so she doesn’t have to walk clear across town.
Yes, the Irish are indeed lovely, generous people. That backpacker was me, and I have never forgotten the wonderful Mrs. Pittman in Dun Laoghaire and how she rescued me that cold, rainy night almost 20 years ago.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
